


Living Hurts, But Less So When I’m With You

by Fledgling



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Din cries A LOT, Exhaustion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, There’s lots of talk about death but none of the main characters die, Time Skips, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29401734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fledgling/pseuds/Fledgling
Summary: 5 times Din cries alone + 3 times someone holds him through it.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Boba Fett, Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 16
Kudos: 143





	Living Hurts, But Less So When I’m With You

**Author's Note:**

> Look, Din’s been through A LOT and deserves to have a good cry over it. It just so happens that most of those times he’s got no one but himself to lean on.

_I._

Din stares at the armored figure kneeling in front of him. His eyes burn, from the smoke and the fire and not blinking, but he can’t blink, can’t close his eyes for even a second without seeing rubble and ash and his parents, lying dead on the ground. The armored figure had flown the two of them into the fields outside of town, landing amongst the tall grass and setting Din on his feet as he knelt.

“Do you have a name, little one?” the figure asks. His voice is soft, layered with an odd, almost metallic echo. Din barely hears it over the ringing in his ears.

Din doesn’t answer. His throat is raw, from screaming and breathing in smoke and from the fear clawing at his insides. The figure tilts his head, the weak morning sunlight glinting off the visor. Din has a sudden flash of memory: that same sunlight shining off the dark metal of the droid as it stood over him and red, unblinking eyes staring at him as a gun arm rose. 

“Shh, _udesii,_ you must stay calm, _adiik_ ,” the figure says, reaching a gloved hand to pat Din’s head through his hood. “You must stay calm; do not let your parents sacrifice mean nothing.”

Din can’t stay calm. The fires still rage in the city behind the figure, the flames and smoke rising over his shoulders. That’s Din’s home, disappearing before his eyes. The figure drops his hand to take one of Din’s, pressing his palm flat to a teal armored chest. There is no heartbeat there—at least, not one Din can feel. What difference is there, between this person and the droid that nearly shot Din?

“Breathe with me, little one,” the figure instructs, taking an exaggerated breath in. The chest moves under Din’s palm. The figure exhales, and then inhales again. In and out; in and out. Din finds himself following the rhythm of it, latching onto the one point of stability he has left.

“ _Jate_ —good, that’s good. Keep going, just like that.”

Din nods uncertainly. A fireball rockets into the sky behind the figure as the ground shakes. Din’s eyes follow the flame, and the smoke that trails it. His eyes still burn; he still can’t blink.

“Do you have any family here? Uncles, aunts, grandparents?”

Din shakes his head without taking his eyes off the sky, a rough, jerky movement. Just him and his parents, and his parents are lying back there in the city.

“Alright,” the figure sighs. “Come on then, little one. Let’s get you to someplace safe.”

The figure wraps his arms around Din once more, one hand cradling the back of his head. He bends his knees, and this time Din is prepared for the way they lift off the ground, the wind pulling at them as they climb higher and higher, further from the city and the fire and the death.

Din doesn’t blink as he watches the city shrink from view.

They land sometime later in another field, this one filled with similarly armored figures in different sizes and colors. The one carrying Din walks calmly through them, nodding to a few as they pass. Din stares at all of them from over the figure’s shoulder. After a few minutes the sound of boots on grass changes to boots on metal as the figure walks up the ramp of a ship. Din’s never been on a ship before, and his eyes flick around, taking in the metal walls.

_“Su cuy’gar, cyar’ika,”_ a new voice rumbles, deeper than the one carrying Din but with the same echo.

“Dearest,” the figure holding Din replies, his voice suddenly softer. He kneels again, setting Din down.

“Who is this?” the deeper voice asks. Din turns his head to look at him; he’s wearing the same teal armor, though he’s bigger than the figure that had rescued Din, taller and broader.

“A foundling,” the figure answers. He cups Din’s cheek with a gloved hand, turning Din’s head gently to face him. “Listen, little one: I’m going to leave you here, okay? My husband will look after you. I will come back, I promise.”

Din nods once. The larger figure picks him up with ease, one arm under his legs, the other tucking Din’s head against his shoulder. Din watches the two of them as they tap their helmets together, holding the position for a few seconds before the larger one turns and leads Din further into the ship. They go through a door and the figure sets Din on a counter as he begins digging through a small cabinet beside them. He pulls out a rag, wetting it in a tiny sink before gently wiping it along Din’s face.

“You are very brave, you know,” the figure rumbles as he works, cleaning soot from Din’s face. “To have gone through what you have is no small feat.”

Din says nothing. The figure rewets the rag, taking one of Din’s hands in his free one and wiping the rag along his palm.

“You are safe here,” the figure continues, his voice becoming quieter. “I know you might not believe me, but you _are_ safe. I will not let anyone hurt you.”

He sets the rag aside and picks up a small cup, filling it with water. He takes one of Din’s hands and wraps it around the cup, helping him guide it to his mouth. Din’s hand is shaking—all of him is shaking.

“Easy, easy. Small sips.”

It hurts to swallow, but Din does it anyway, the water settling like a rock in his stomach. The cup returns to its place on the counter and Din is picked up once more. This time the figure carries him to a dark room, letting him down and then digging through something in the dark. Din can’t see anything, and so his mind conjures up images for him: his parents’ terrified faces as the hatched closed; the droid’s cold red eyes staring down at him; the blaster fire zipping through the air.

“Come here, little one,” the voice rumbles, a hand wrapping around Din’s wrist. He’s led forward a few steps, and the hand guides his hand down to the ground. A cushion meets him, thin but soft.

“Lay down here. Rest.”

Din does as he’s told. A blanket covers him, and the figure rises, making his way back to the door.

“I will be just outside the door here if you need me.”

Din stares into the darkness as the door opens and closes. He pulls the blanket closer to him as he curls into a ball, pulling it up over his nose.

He blinks.

It’s like a dam bursting, all the fear, the panic, the grief crashing into him. Din bites his lip hard enough to cut the skin so that his sobs cannot make any sounds. Hot tears roll down his cheeks, and he makes no effort to wipe them away. He gasps, ragged and broken, his body shaking as if it would fall apart at any moment.

Alone in the dark, Din mourns his parents.

_II._

Din stares out at the whirling patterns of hyperspace.

His body aches; first the pummeling from the mudhorn, then the fight through the Imperial compound to save the child, and now the fight with the Guild to escape the city.

His whole body throbs with his pulse—even his teeth ache.

The child is asleep in the chair behind him to the right. Din stares at him for a long moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his tiny chest. He’s not likely to wake anytime soon, stress and whatever the doctor had done to him dragging him to the deepest reaches of slumber.

Din still feels a hot rush of panic as he lifts his helmet up and off.

He’s got no other choice though, not unless he wants to hyperventilate.

Din draws a breath in through his nose, holding it for several seconds before blowing it out through his mouth in a jittery exhale. Repeats it. His heart beats wildly in his chest, like a wild bird freshly caged.

In. Out.

Din tilts his head back, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat. He had saved the child—a foundling, just like he was. And now he was paying the price for his life.

The Tribe is gone. His _family_ is _gone_.

Whatever relief he had felt upon seeing them initially is fading fast, replaced by a gaping maw of grief and loss. They had exposed themselves to keep him and the foundling safe, but now they would have to flee, scatter like stardust—and that was just for those who were alive, never mind any who had died.

_This is the way,_ Din thinks. It feels hollow.

Karga, too, is gone. Din wouldn’t call them friends by any means, but Karga had been a constant in Din’s life for the past three years. He is dead now, too.

The first sob rips from Din’s throat before he can stop it. It’s a ragged, wet sound, followed by a low whine. Din slaps his gloved hands over his mouth to try and muffle the other sounds that follow, all too aware of the child in the cockpit with him. Tears roll down his cheeks, hot and bitter. He squeezes his eyes shut, but the tears keep coming. He grits his teeth, swallowing around all the wrecked sounds vying to escape his throat.

Whatever life he had on Nevarro is gone now. And he had no one to blame but himself.

_III._

Din gets the child tucked into his hammock, taking just a few seconds to watch him and make sure he’s fully asleep before climbing up to the cockpit. He falls into his chair with a boneless slump of exhaustion.

His head hurts—and it _itches_ , a side effect of the healing process, and the smell of bacta is overwhelming. Din slips his helmet off, setting it on the ground by his feet. There’s blood stuck to his face and matting in his hair, but he can’t find the energy to go and clean up.

He should be dead.

Between the stress, the head injury, and the sheer _stupidity_ that was him trying to fight a TIE fighter with a jetpack, there is no way he should still be living. He supposes he has IG-11 to thank for at least part of that—and all at once the nausea hits, like a punch directly under Din’s ribs. He doubles over, hissing as he fights back the urge to vomit.

He doesn’t know which part is worse: the fact that the droid _removed his helmet_ , or that fact that a _droid_ removed his helmet.

He’s scrambling down the ladder before he’s even aware he’s moving, making his way to the vactube and crashing to his knees in front of it. The next wave of nausea slams into him and this time he can’t hold it back, bile burning as it climbs up his throat. He hates vomiting; hates it for how vulnerable he is during and how weary he is afterwards, hates it for the weakness it represents, hates it for the way he can never really scrub the taste away.

He coughs and spits saliva and stomach acid into the vactube, blinking away the tears welling up in his eyes. He slumps to the side, leaning against the wall. His vision is blurry; whether that’s from the tears or the head injury, Din’s not sure. His hands fumble as they reach back to remove his jetpack, the unfamiliar weight skewing his already weakened sense of balance. He sets it by his thigh, staring at the shiny surface.

The sudden memory of the Armorer, the pieces of armor scattered around her and the forge, sends Din back to the vactube. He had known that it would happen, that there was no way everyone in the Tribe could have made it out alive. But he had _hoped_ , foolishly, that he was wrong.

How many have been lost because of him?

He slumps back against the wall, shaking and gasping. The tears finally begin to fall, cool against his face, and he screams. Screams for the brothers and sisters he’s lost; screams for nearly losing the child to Gideon; screams for nearly _dying._ Screams until his throat is too hoarse to continue, until he’s coughing and wheezing, curling in on himself. He has half a thought that he might have woken the child, but pushes it aside. The child’s a heavy sleeper, especially after using his powers to such an extent.

Din closes his eyes, stubbornly ignoring how crying has made the throbbing pain in his head worse. He tries to wrangle his breathing back under control, tries to stop the ragged gasps, calm them into something steadier.

It doesn’t work.

Eventually the exhaustion wins out above everything else, and Din falls asleep curled against the wall, bloody and broken and alone.

_IV._

Din doesn’t know what to make of all the emotions roiling inside of him. There’s rage, and sorrow, and guilt, and fear, and helplessness, and it’s eating him alive.

So he paces.

_Slave I_ is nothing like the _Razor Crest_ , but by the second night of pacing Din could traverse it blindly. Cockpit; cargo hold; crew quarters. He knows the layout of each one—or at least his body does, muscle memory taking him from place to place. His mind is somewhere else, somewhere dark and numb.

His ship is gone. His child—his _son_ —is gone.

He wishes he was gone, too.

The third morning, Boba stops him halfway through his trek through the cargo hold.

“You keep this up, you’re going to wear a groove in my ship,” Boba says. There’s something in his voice that halts Din’s feet, something that sounds suspiciously like sympathy.

“You have a better suggestion?” Din croaks.

“Perhaps. You used that spear at all?”

Din shakes his head.

“We should fix that,” Boba says as he moves. There’s a mat rolled up in one corner of the cargo hold, and he pulls it out, undoing the straps and letting it unroll itself to fill half the space. He steps onto the mat, gaderffii stick in hand.

“Come, let’s see what you know.”

Din swallows as he pulls the spear from its sheathe, holding it out in front of him in a two-handed grip. Boba studies him for a moment before charging forward, his gaderffii stick meeting the spear with a surprising amount of force. The impact sends shocks up Din’s hands, into his arms, and he has to quickly readjust his grip on the spear so he doesn’t drop it.

Another strike, aimed at his legs, and Din blocks that one with the end of the spear. He doesn’t expect the vambrace that suddenly slams into his throat, and he stumbles backwards, coughing. The gaderffii stick rises in his peripheral, and he tucks and rolls out of the way as it arcs down towards his head. He sweeps his legs out towards Boba’s, his foot hooking around an ankle and yanking Boba down to the floor with him. It’s a scramble from there, each trying to pin the other. Their weapons are gone, lost to the mat somewhere. Din thinks he hears Boba snarl at him, like a massiff about to pounce, before the world is tilting and he’s face down on the mat, pinned under Boba’s bulk.

“Well, your basics are there,” Boba says conversationally, as if he isn’t straddling Din’s legs. “Still, could use some work.”

He rolls off of Din, holding out a hand to help him up. Din takes it, and takes the spear when it is handed to him. Boba returns to his side of the mat, dropping back into a ready stance.

“Again.”

It becomes a routine: pace, spar, pace. Fennec and Cara know to give him space, to let him work himself out. Mayfeld learns quickly—one look down the pointed end of Din’s spear is enough to keep him at bay. Din eats only when prompted to by Boba, quickly scarfing down ration bars in solitude. He sleeps as little as possible, and only when his body absolutely demands it of him. He misses his tiny bunk on the _Razor Crest_ , misses the familiar hum of his ship—his home.

He paces. He spars. He eats. He sleeps.

He dreams.

He dreams of blaster fire riddling his body where the beskar doesn’t cover. He dreams of shiny black droids, cold and terrifying. He dreams of Nevarro, of fire and blood. He dreams of his childhood home and his parents, reduced to rubble and ash.

He dreams of his son, mostly—of arriving too late, and finding his son long gone from the world of the living.

He dreams—and in his dreams, he holds his son’s body and cries.

He wakes up with tear tracks dried to his face under his helmet.

_V._

Morak is a disaster.

Din curls into a ball in one corner of the cargo hold, surrounded by crates and barrels stacked high enough that he can’t been seen from the door. He’s like a wounded animal, slinking off to some secluded place to die.

He’s hyperventilating in his helmet, but he can’t get it off—his hands are shaking too much, his arms refusing to move.

It is done. He is _dar’manda_ now, his creed broken.

The terror still clings to him, clawing at his insides. He had not only removed his helmet, he had done so in a room full of enemies. Every single one of them had seen his face and, sure, most of them were probably dead now, but they still knew. They still took his face with them to their graves.

Din’s hands finally move, and he shoves his helmet up just enough to expose his mouth. He gasps, both from the cold air hitting his face and because breathing is suddenly easier, if only fractionally.

His creed is broken.

He thinks of the Armorer, and Paz, and all of the Tribe, however many might be left. He’ll never be able to see them again. To break the creed is to submit to exile, on fear of death.

What last bit of hope he had of finding his covert, of returning to them, is gone.

Din bites his lip hard enough the taste blood as a whine builds in his throat.

There’s a dull ache in most of his body from where he had got knocked off his feet and onto his back by the explosion earlier, and in his arm where the vambrace had shattered. None of it compares to the agony of his heart breaking behind the cage of his ribs.

He pushes his helmet the rest of the way up, wiping futilely at the tears streaming down his face. He curls further into himself, reaching blindly behind him until his hand finds his cloak, pulling it over himself.

He bites down on the side of his hand as another retched sound tries to claw its way from his throat. The only reason he doesn’t taste blood now is because of the protection his gloves offer. Instead, he tastes leather and grief, raw and ashy as it coats his tongue.

It’s a taste he’s used to, now.

_\+ I._

Grogu is gone.

Din cradles his helmet to his chest as he boards _Slave I,_ the same way he had held Grogu on more than one occasion.

He collapses in the same corner of the cargo hold, behind the same stack of crates and barrels, pressing his back to the wall. He feels the ship thrum under him as they take off, feels the vibrations change as the hit hyperspace. He draws in a shaky breath, closes his eyes as he lets it out. Takes in another, holds it, lets it out as the tears start falling.

“I thought I might find you here.

Din blinks up at Boba, hastily trying to wipe the tears away. Boba tilts his head to the side, stepping carefully into the space. He gestures wordlessly to the spot beside Din. At Din’s nod he sits, removing his own helmet and setting it beside him.

“It is alright to grieve your losses, you know,” Boba says after a moment.

Din says nothing—the second he opens his mouth to speak, all that’s going to come out is a sob, a gasp, a whine.

“The longer you hold it in, the more it will hurt when it eventually breaks out. And it will break out.”

Din turns his head away from Boba as another wave of tears starts. Boba shifts next to him with a clatter of armor, and suddenly he’s pressing flush against Din’s side. Din whips his head around, staring at Boba. The other man’s face is surprisingly open, and Din can read the understanding, the sympathy written in his expression.

Din crumples against him with a wail. Boba is quick to wrap an arm around his waist, the other cupping the back of his head where it’s resting against his pauldron.

“That’s it, let it out. I’ve got you,” Boba whispers.

“He’s gone,” Din rasps.

“No. He’s just moved on to the next part of his journey. It’s what children do.”

Din squeezes his eyes shut, his hands digging into his biceps as he holds on to himself, afraid he’ll shake apart otherwise. The hand on his head moves, carding through his hair.

“It hurts,” Din gasps. “It hurts so much.”

“Shh, I know. I promise, it’ll get better. Just like any other wound, it’ll hurt before it heals.”

Din nods slowly, letting more of his weight fall against Boba. The tears are slowing, sorrow giving way to exhaustion so bone deep it robs Din of anything other than the desire to rest.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry. Just rest.”

Din falls asleep with tears still dripping from his eyes. When he wakes up, he’s lying on a bunk, a blanket tucked around him. His helmet and a canteen are lying on the floor within arm's reach, but more importantly someone has wiped his face, the evidence of his tears and the sweat and grime of battling in armor gone.

He doesn’t have to guess who it is that did it.

_\+ II._

Boba steps off the ship first, his feet carrying him across the sands to a figure standing several feet from the ship. Din recognizes him, of course, recognizes his silver hair and red scarf, recognizes his stance.

Of course, Din also had asked to be dropped off in Mos Pelgo.

He can’t hear whatever it is the Boba says to Cobb, not at this distance and with his helmet in his hands. He watches Boba gesture back towards the ship, Cobb’s eyes following the movement. His stance changes when he sees Din, recognition replacing wariness. Din takes that as his cue, stepping down the ramp and onto Tatooine.

“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Cobb drawls as he approaches. “Your friend here tells me you need a place to stay for a while.”

Friend. Isn’t that something?

“I’d appreciate it,” Din mutters, fighting the urge to duck his head. Being helmetless is still strange to him, and eye contact is difficult to maintain.

“It’s no problem at all, we’ll be happy to have you,” Cobb says with a smile. There’re questions in his eyes, questions Din doesn’t know if he can answer without breaking down yet.

“I’ll be back in a week to see how you’re doing,” Boba says. “Got some business to take care of first.”

Din nods. Boba claps him on the shoulder, grinning slightly, and then he’s boarding his ship once more.

“Interesting company you keep,” Cobb mutters once the ship has begun to vanish over the horizon. “Was that the armor I had?”

Din opens his mouth, then closes it with a sigh.

“It’s a long story.”

Cobb hums and, after a moment, wraps his arm around Din’s shoulders. He begins leading them back to Mos Pelgo.

“Got all the time in the world, partner.”

Partner. Isn’t that something, too?

They spend the rest of the day and part of the evening in Cobb’s living room, Din recounting everything that had happened since he left Mos Pelgo. Cobb listens intently, asking questions every now and again. It’s not until Din gets to the end of the story that the tears come. They slip from his eyes with a ragged exhale, and Din presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

He hears footsteps, and then the couch dips as Cobb sits beside him. Din drops his hands and looks at him, swallowing thickly. Cobb says nothing, taking both of Din’s hands in his and holding them as Din cries.

“I don’t know how I have any tears left,” he whispers after a few minutes.

“Your body’s hollowing itself out to make them,” Cobb says. “It’s why you feel so empty.”

Din ducks his head, leaning against the marshal as the tears continue to come. Cobb lets go of one of his hands to wrap his arm around his shoulders instead.

“I’ve got ya, partner. It’ll be alright.”

Din hopes he’s right.

_\+ III._

Din’s had nightmares ever since he was a small child.

Before he lost his parents, they were about intangible things: eyes and teeth and claws in the darkness of the night. He’d wake up crying, and at least one of his parents would always be there to wipe his tears away, to hold him until he could fall asleep again.

And then he lost them.

After that, his nightmares take the form of glowing red eyes and blaster fire, or rubble crashing down on top of him as the hatch collapses. Sometimes he sees his parents in his nightmares, their empty eyes and terror-frozen faces. No one is there to comfort him when he wakes up screaming and crying.

As the years go by, the nightmares change.

The singing birds failing and the Stormtroopers subduing him, taking the child from him.

The incinerator trooper aiming his flamethrower at Din, injured and unable to fight back.

The krayt dragon swallowing him whole, the detonator failing and Din falling into its stomach.

The dark troopers defeating him on Gideon’s light cruiser, so close to rescuing his son and failing at the end.

The darksaber piercing his armor, Gideon gloating as he dies in front of his son.

Din shoots upright with a gasp, his eyes frantically scanning the dark room. His heart is hammering against his chest, the claws of a nightmare still sunk into his mind.

“Din? Sweetheart?”

A hand rubs against his back, and Din turns his head to look at Cobb in the dark. The marshal makes a low noise in the back of his throat, sitting up and wrapping his arms around Din. Din sighs and leans into him, his forehead resting against Cobb’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Din mutters. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Hm, it’s okay.”

Din takes a deep breath, blinking as tears slowly fall from his eyes. A hand runs the length of his spine, up and down, and Din lets his breath out.

They shift to lie back down after a minute, maneuvering until Din’s head is resting over Cobb’s heart, the steady thump-thump chasing the last of the nightmare from his mind. Cobb’s hand tangles in his hair, petting through the dark curls.

The tears finally stop.


End file.
